Teacher, Speaker, Traveler, Writer

Teaching

One of the most satisfying opportunities to have in China is to attend some sort of event—a wedding, a school graduation, a birthday party, or even spring harvest. In our country, we miss the boat without having the kinds of celebrations those events create in China, particularly where children are involved.

First of all, color dominates, and it’s usually red, a pure bright red signifying success and joy. But, best of all, is the children are included—front and center—in the happenings, not just as restless observers, but as active participants.

As a result, Chinese children grow into confident adults, able to appear in front of a group with calm smiles—unlike at many events here in the U.S. where children are eliminated from “grown-up” activities, perhaps often present, but not truly participating. Then they get into trouble for “horse playing.”

When in China, I frequently observed children under the age of 12 or 13 who calmly introduced programs, sang or danced without noticeable flaws, and received quiet praise without the “ah shucks” response of many of our children. As a result, they grow into adults without having that aura of confidence and skill that carries them well into their futures.

Perhaps because of that lack of integration, for want of a better word, I have the same “ah shucks” attitude when someone appreciates, approves, or applauds something I’ve done or written or said. My response—because I grew up in an era of “children should be seen, not heard”—my lack of social skills hasn’t been helpful.

I believe—after many observations of a wide variety of social events in China—where children are seriously included in whatever the activities might be, that they develop the social skills of confidence, manners, appreciation, and even joy when included in what we consider adult happenings.

In U.S. audiences, where children are hushed, scolded, spanked even, there seems to be that loss of confidence that carries over into their own adult lives. If children are not included, it is quite apparent that they will become restless, leading to shushings, spankings, and even removal from the scene. Then everyone is unhappy.

When in China, dealing with things domestic and diplomatic, I was always amazed by what I sensed was an unspoken assurance emanating from the people with whom I had contact. After a time, and after attending many celebrations of varying kinds, my conclusion is that we should include more often, isolate less frequently, our children and grandchildren in our celebratory events.

That does not mean we should praise poor performances; we already give meaningless medals for mere attendance at an event, or false recognition for children who don’t really participate, but sit as observers. Now there is a tenor of change working its way through such an emotionally damaging policy. Pictures of children, who realize the medals they just received were meaningless, ripping up the scroll or breaking the plaque, or stomping on the medal, have surfaced in recent months.

Children who don’t realize the lack of value in such empty recognition often falter and fail as adults who face the real world. The results then aren’t good. We need to get children involved like the Chinese do….early and often. And—happily wearing lots of red.

We were in An Wei’s hometown, a small village really. An Wei had brought this group of Global Volunteers for a working project—a new elementary school. It was to be built on the hard ground that we checked out on this first day in the village. Eager children sang a welcome to us as we climbed off the bus bringing us from Xian, a wonderfully historic city which should be on everyone’s China “must visit” list.

When we walked into the house where our group would stay, both Kay and I sniffed, immediately noticing a smell. It was fresh, light-blue paint on the walls. Our twin beds sported fluffy new coverlets and plump pillows. Someone, and we suspected the village women, had worked hard to make our accommodations the best that much elbow grease could provide. The living room/kitchen area also exhibited fresh care in anticipation of our arrival. Several youngsters stood, one with her thumb in her mouth, to gauge our reactions. Their smiles told us they were pleased that their efforts were so well-recognized.

From the very start we felt at home, despite the two pigs in a small enclosure just outside the front door. But the school was our project, and a day later, after we ate a light breakfast, we were looking at a large hole in the ground, the rough circumference of the future school. A large, hopeful group of families watched us.

Several of us worked in the older elementary school which our efforts would replace. We were there primarily to help Chinese teachers develop better skill in the English language, particularly with pronunciation. I chose to work with children in the 4th year. It would be eye-opening to me—a teacher by profession in the U.S. The first thing I noticed was the silence in the room of about 30 students. As the weeks went by, my major task was getting them to make a sound. They sat straightly still, obedient, with eyes that showed an eagerness to learn. I almost checked to make certain they were still breathing.

But I learned something else this first week.

Each day after school we walked around town to learn more about the people—and for them to learn about us. Classes lasted an intensive half-day, so we also were involved with the construction of the new school.

The men in our group poured cement on a flat stone, added water to it, and transferred it to our volunteer women who then walked it over to the where the walls for the basement would be. No one dared to apply a math test to this lengthy effort. The cement-on-stone hand-mixing process operated just beneath a cement mixer lashed to a tall pole. Several of us questioned why the cement mixer wasn’t running.

“No electricity,” was the answer, accompanied by a shrug. Meanwhile, I was hoeing bushes, shrubs, and weeds, sometimes shoveling dirt. One day, a little boy came up to me, took the shovel away and said, “Grandmothers should not be doing this kind of work.”

While I talked with him, I noted three black stretch cars coming full steam ahead up the dirt road, heading our way. I quickly took the shovel back, and yelled at my fellow volunteers. “Get busy.”

I knew who the men were that crowded into the cars. The Party men.

They carefully got out of their cars, carefully walked over to peer into the hole in the ground, carefully looked at each of us—me with sweat rolling down my face, a shovel in my hand. Then they left.

The next day, we were told we didn’t have to go to work, and would instead be bused to visit a major historical site some miles away, which would take at least five hours. I was surprised; this was contrary to the usual Chinese work ethic, but I didn’t complain. We took the trip, enjoyed a visit to the site, had a fine lunch, and returned to our village.

As we drove down the main street, we all noticed the new addition to that street—a 3- or 4-foot-wide, 5- or 6-foot-deep trench that ran the entire length of the village—and out to the new school site. None of us knew what it was until the next morning.

When we arrived at our work, the cement mixer was running, and our work became not only faster, but easier. I looked at the wires coming from the pole to the mixer, and recalled the ditch through the town. It didn’t take a math genius to add two and two.

The Party men had “lost face” in front of Americans. The people of the village didn’t care who or what had made electricity happen for their homes and jobs. They knew the reason; we quietly became instant heroes.